Muddy Reflections
by becka
Summary: Slash. Yet another "Harry is wrongly accused and sent to Azkaban" story, which picks up at the end of Book 4. Featuring a mildly psychotic Harry and his questionable relationship with a snake.
1. To Azkaban!

Title: Muddy Reflections

Author: Becka  
Pairing: Draco/Harry.

Warnings: Abuse, Angst, AU?, Brutality, Character-death, DARK, Disturbed, Harry-torture, Language, Self-injury, Yoai/Slash.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to Becka; characters are used without permission for a non-profit purpose. No infringement is intended.

o

It was pretty funny when he thought about it. Not, he amended silently, that the thought gave him any comfort, because it wasn't a pleasant sort of funny, or even an embarrassed kind of "ha ha." It wasn't smiles and sunshine, a walk on the beach, or cotton candy stained lips. It wasn't learning how to fly a broom or earning points for his House. It wasn't __nice__.

It __was__ funny, though.

He was supposed to be their hero. Not that he'd ever really had much choice in the matter. It wasn't like he'd __asked__ a Dark Wizard to cast the Killing Curse on him, though he acknowledged it might have been better for everyone if Voldemort had succeeded. But he'd only been a baby at the time, barely a year old, and though he might wish he'd died with his parents, the past would remain unchanged.

Maybe that's when the cosmic joke that plagued his life had first reared its ugly head. A __baby__ had defeated the powerful Dark Lord. The people of the wizarding world had hung all of their hopes and their dreams on a child. The Daily Prophet probably had something to do that. If it hadn't been for all of the bloody publicity, he would have happily lived the rest of his cursed life in anonymity. But the fact remained, a __baby__ had been the first to survive the dreaded Killing Curse.

What a laugh!

It wasn't his fault that people thought he was some sort of golden boy. Hell, the Sorting Hat had wanted to put him in Slytherin – now __that__ was funny – and he could fully admit to himself that there must be something wrong him. Hadn't the Dursleys told him that he was "unnatural" and a "freak" since before he could remember?

Ah, the Dursleys. They'd believed he was evil from the very beginning, and he idly wondered if they'd been informed of his… situation. If they had, Vernon would undoubtedly be consoling a distraught Petunia, murmuring reassurances that the freakish murderer would never be allowed back in their house again. Perhaps Vernon would finish it up by saying that he was where he belonged.

So much for the Boy-Who-Lived. The Daily Prophet now spouted headlines like, "The-Boy-Who-Turned-His-Back" and "Harry Potter, Finally Defeated!"

They'd put him in Azkaban.

He really had to hand it to Voldemort – the man was nothing if not ingenious.

It was beautiful, in a twisted way, and personally he found it funny as hell, but then he'd always been a cynic at heart. He and Cedric had taken the portkey together, and the echoes of "Kill the spare!" still haunted his dreams. After his escape, he'd brought what he'd believed was the body of his schoolmate back to the Tournament, and no one had been more surprised then he when the corpse had convulsed, then shaken off what appeared to be the lingering effects of Cruciatus.

Oh, he should have seen then and there what was going to happen, but he'd been so relieved that he wasn't guilty of Cedric's death that he'd ignored his instincts. The sinking feeling in his gut was realized when, a few days later, an exclusive interview with Cedric appeared in the Daily Prophet, stating how Harry had __willingly__ revived the Dark Lord with his blood.

Everything had started to fall apart after that. Accusations had flown, but Dumbledore had managed to keep him safe. Harry's wand disappeared the same day Cedric was "murdered," and of course it had turned up when the Aurors stopped in. It came as no surprise to him when the last spell his wand had cast was Avada Kedavra.

Looking back, that day had been his own private Hell on Earth. Ron had attacked him, getting in a few good punches before, surprisingly, Draco Malfoy had pulled him off. He could still feel the sting of Hermione's hand across his cheek, and her bitter, half-hysterical cry of, "I trusted you!"

That day it became quite clear to him why he should have never been born. It didn't matter what he'd been through with his friends; when push came to shove, they were the first to denounce him as the next Dark Lord. Even Neville Longbottom had stepped up to him and spat in his face.

His trial was a joke. The evidence was stacked so high against him that he wouldn't have stood a chance even __if__ Dumbledore had defended him. Of course, the Headmaster of Hogwarts wanted nothing to do with him, and somehow that betrayal hurt worst of all. He'd stood alone at his trial, the court so convinced of his guilt that they'd refused to let him take Veritaserum.

Voldemort was probably laughing his decrepit ass off. Harry's crime was the murder of someone who was already __dead__. His sentence was a life-term imprisonment in Azkaban.

That wasn't the best part, though. Oh, no, not by far. Azkaban was guarded by Dementors, and the Dementors' sole purpose was to suck the happiness from a person's soul. Of course, there was a bit of a problem in Harry's case.

All of his memories were of the people who'd betrayed him. Every "good time" in his past was already tainted with the knowledge that it had all been one big, horrible __lie__. They'd never believed in him if they could throw him aside so easily. They'd never trusted him if they could sentence him to Azkaban without even __listening__ to his side of things. And it was with that certainty that he'd realized they'd never really loved him.

So what joy did he have for the Dementors to take? Certainly not his time with the Dursleys, and definitely not his life at Hogwarts. All of the moments he'd once treasured were already ruined. Ron, Hermione, and Dumbledore's actions had been more effective in that than even a Dementor's Kiss. Sirius had privately disinherited Harry as his godson. Remus had told him that he'd dishonored his father's memory. Fred and George had tried to physically assault him, and the rest of the Weasley family was quite vocal in their hate.

Three people had stood up for him. Hagrid had told the wizarding world that they were daft if they believed Harry capable of murder, but the word of a half-giant wasn't worth much. Surprisingly, Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy had also agreed, though their words were more along the lines of, "He may be an idiot, but he's not a killer."

No, none of that was taken from him by the Dementors, because none of it was happy. Just as his knowledge that he was innocent brought him no comfort.

Harry did have one happy memory, though. Just one. And the kicker was that every time the Dementors came near him, he relived it.

_/ "Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off –"_

_The sounds of someone stumbling from a room – a door bursting open – a cackle of high-pitched laughter - _

"_Not Harry! Not Harry! Please – I'll do anything!"_

"_Stand aside! Stand side, girl!" /_

Sick as it was, listening to his parents being killed by Voldemort __was__ his most precious memory. It was the only time he ever got to hear their voices, the voices of two people who he liked to believe loved him unconditionally.

What a paradox! Or so he thought. The Dementors drained the happiness from a person, forcing them to relive their worst memory. But Harry's worst memory was the only joy that he had left.

Now __that__ was fucking hilarious.

o

Severus Snape was one of the few people who believed Potter was innocent. He also had several connections that ensured he would be there when the boy was locked away. Perhaps he was a masochist, but he needed to be there to ensure to himself that he would never forget. So he watched, unblinking.

He watched as Harry Potter was led into his cell. Cell Z1263, he noted idly, a remote location that would be his permanent residence in Azkaban, and one of the most strictly guarded.

He watched as the Minister of Magic, Fudge himself, locked the barred door and sealed the boy off from the rest of the world. The irony was not lost on him as Fudge tucked the enchanted key into one of his pockets, no doubt intending to have it squirreled away to a remote, protected location.

He watched as the wizarding world and all of its inhabitants finalized the betrayal of their boy-wonder, who remained, to date, the only wizard who had ever thwarted Voldemort and done so repeatedly.

Severus Snape watched, his heart heavier than he could ever remember feeling. He may not have __liked__ Potter, but the boy was just that – a __boy__. A __child__ playing at things that grown wizards would shy from. A child who did not deserve to be punished for a crime he undoubtedly did not commit.

But there was nothing he could do.

Hesitantly, the Potions Master stepped forward, just a little, to watch as the Dementors swarmed to the boy's cell. He watched Potter sit down on the tiny cot, burying his face in his hands. He watched the slim shoulders begin to shake.

For a horrified moment, Severus believed the boy would cry, and for some reason, he didn't think he could bear to watch __that__.

Then something funny happened. The Dementors __hesitated__.

And the Boy-Who-Lived, slowly at first but with growing conviction, began to quietly laugh.

o


	2. Preparations

Title: Muddy Reflections

Author: Becka

Chapter 2: Preparations

o

Harry had been locked away in Azkaban for – he glanced over at the makeshift calendar on his wall – oh, six years, eleven months, and a handful of days. After his imprisonment, one of the first things he'd done was create a calendar to keep track of the long days. It helped keep him sane.

He wasn't allowed pens or paper, but the problem of ink was easily solved. And so long as he gave himself time to recuperate, his supply was limitless. There was no color in Azkaban – the lifeless tones of grey and black mocked him daily – and it was almost a relief to see vibrant red on the walls. It dried and paled eventually, but he could always apply it fresh.

There was, unsurprisingly, little to do. Coupled with the presence of the Dementors, it was easy to see why Azkaban could be considered a living hell. He supposed that most of his fellow inmates were too lost in their own minds to care, but Harry was not insane.

Well, he amended with a bitter smile, not __completely__ insane.

With so much time on his hands and nothing but misery and betrayal to occupy his thoughts, Harry had made several discoveries, the first of which had helped to keep him from teetering over into the brink of madness.

He could perform magic without a wand.

He'd discovered it by accident. When he'd first begun trying to paint his calendar, he'd taken to gnawing at his own wrist in an effort to access his blood. It had been rather… messy… and he'd wished that he'd had a razor or __something__ to make it easier. Imagine his surprise when he'd managed to conjure a single, tiny blade out of thin air!

The effort had drained him completely, and he'd almost immediately fallen asleep, but the thought that stayed with him through his dreams was that he was able to do wandless magic inside the wards of Azkaban! And, in the same regard, no one would know, because if the wards didn't recognize his ability, it was untraceable.

So he'd practiced, when he had the energy. It was both physically and mentally draining, but the more he practiced, the stronger he'd become. His driving force was the thought that one day he'd be able to escape and exact his revenge on Voldemort, not because it was his alleged destiny, but because the man had taken everything Harry had ever cared about away from him.

His old "friends" weren't blameless in that regard either, but after so much time, he'd learned to dismiss them from his mind. Maybe it was bitterness, or maybe it was the Dementors, but he found he didn't have the energy to care about them anymore. To borrow a Muggle expression, he had bigger fish to fry.

He'd thrown himself into his self-study of wandless magic, taking care to hide his gift from the other inmates, and the occasional guard who brought him food once a day. The guards never stuck around his cell very long – his disturbing laughter was legendary inside the prison's walls – and the fear on their faces amused Harry to no end.

Of course, it didn't hurt that his cell was twice the size of his old cupboard, and that the food he received was more than Petunia and Vernon had ever deemed fit to give him. He wondered how the wizarding world would react if they knew his "harsh accommodations" were better than he'd had for the first eleven years of his life, and the subsequent summers after that. The thought only made him laugh harder.

Harry's second unexpected discovery had arrived almost a year after he'd begun to practice wandless magic. He might hate Voldemort for many things, but the accidental passing on of Parseltongue was definitely not among them.

He remembered the day clearly, lying on his tiny cot and staring up at the ceiling as he lazily tried to create swirls of colors that he barely remembered. A hissing voice had whispered, _"Curiousss. Medusssa wasss not aware that men could make magicsss without their sticksss."_

Surprised at being caught, Harry had bolted up in his bed, eyes scanning the darkness for the speaker. He hadn't been able to see anyone, and for a moment he'd believed that he'd finally gone around the bend and was hearing voices.

The voice had hissed out, _"Oh? Can the ssstrange one hear Medusssa?"_

"The strange one can hear you perfectly well," Harry had snipped. "Show yourself."

"Curiousss indeed…"

And then he'd caught a sliver of movement out of the corner of his eye as a thin, six-foot snake had slithered through the bars of his cell, its strangely hypnotic eyes locking with his own. In a blinding moment of panic, he'd recognized the creature as a young Basilisk.

Harry's eyes had widened, and he wondered how long a Basilisk took to kill their victims, but he'd felt no different as he continued to stare into the creatures eyes. _"You're a Basilisk, aren't you?"_ he'd finally asked, speaking in the creature's own tongue.

"_You ssspeak my wordsss, sssstrange one! You meet my eyesss!"_ Medusa had hissed in surprise.

"_I do."_ He'd continued hesitantly, _"I'm sorry I was rude, but I thought I was hearing voices. Umm… shouldn't I be dead by now?"_

"_Yesss, ssstrange one, but you are not. My massster you mussst be, for only my massster, my sssame, isss able to meet my eyesss."_ Medusa's hiss was puzzled, but Harry had sensed an underlying excitement. It was about then that he'd realized that the Basilisk probably felt as lonely as he did.

In a lightning quick movement, too fast for his eyes to follow, the snake had slithered up onto his cot and wrapped itself around his torso. The contact was a strange comfort to him, because he'd long since forgotten what it felt like to be touched.

"_My love, my massster, my sssame!"_ Medusa had whispered against him, her body gliding against his skin as she wriggled under his robes. Her tongue flicked out, tasting his skin as she twined sinuously against him.

"_My love, my Medusa, my same,"_ he'd replied gently, rubbing one of his hands against her scaly body. And with the words, he'd unknowingly bound them together. He had been able to __feel__ her in his heart, feel her joy of discovering there was someone whose eyes she could meet without harm. She'd only known him for minutes, but Harry could feel her unconditional love and her desire to be with him, to protect him, for the rest of their lives.

He felt it, and he wanted to bask in her love, but he couldn't. He couldn't return the affection completely, because he'd realized the Dementors would be able to take it from him. Medusa had flicked her tongue out, tasting the single tear that made its way down his cheek, silently telling him that she understood, and it had been enough.

Medusa had chosen to remain with him, and while he couldn't feel joy, he knew his life in Azkaban had definitely improved. He had someone he could talk to! He wasn't alone anymore! And everyday she assured him, her feelings echoing in his heart, that she would never leave him.

In the beginning, he hadn't been able to support Medusa's weight, and he'd known that she'd only grow bigger with time. It was out of his desire to be able to carry her with him at all times that he'd begun dividing his days between his practice of magic and a rigorous workout. He'd done sit-ups, push-ups, and (ingeniously using his barred door) pull-ups. His efforts had paid off.

With his build, he would never be anything but lanky. His muscles were wiry, but they served his purpose, and Medusa was able to wrap her long body around him, underneath his tattered robes. Her narrow head often rested on his shoulder, and he enjoyed listening to her as he worked.

One of his favorite pastimes was his practice to become an Animagus. After his third year, he'd finally succeeded in transforming himself completely. Medusa had been generous in her praise, and he stood proudly on four legs, his black, shaggy fur a welcome warmth from the chill of his cell. He had it on her authority that the silver lightning bolt was still plainly visible on his forehead.

His form didn't surprise him in the least. After his time in Azkaban, he felt very much the loner. What better body to put to him then that of a wolf?

On Medusa's suggestion, he'd decided to see if it was possible to transform himself into a different creature. He knew Professor McGonagall had mentioned it was impossible for a wizard to have more than one Animagus form, but then wandless magic was also thought impossible. Topped with the fact that he shouldn't be able to perform __any__ magic inside the wards of Azkaban, it seemed entirely possible that he might be able to break the other laws of magic as well.

It took him another year of constant practice. It was understandably difficult, because his body recognized the wolf as his form, and trying to force it into something else proved very, very painful. But his perseverance paid off, and Medusa was delighted when his second Animagus form was that of a Basilisk. Harry had never realized the strangeness of Parseltongue in his human mouth until he hissed his words for the first time. The sheer __rightness__ of it almost made him want to cry.

Remembering that transformation brought a small smile to Harry's lips. Medusa had twined with his body, as he had done with hers. _"Massster,"_ she had breathed, _"Oh massster isss truly my sssame!"_

His final Animagus form had come to him the quickest. Barely a month had passed before he'd managed to transfigure himself into a hawk. Again, the feeling had been beautiful, as had the joy of knowing that he could fly with his own wings, but the happiness had almost instantly been drained from him by the Dementors.

After that, he'd decided to stop trying to learn new forms, because the joy he felt in them was always stripped away. Perhaps one day when he'd escaped he might take up the learning again, but doing so then had simply been too painful.

Besides, the three forms he'd mastered were more than enough to suit his purposes. The wolf would be useful for covering great distances on the land, and with his fur, he wouldn't have to worry about the cold. Having a sharp set of canines would be of great help, and he knew he'd be able to defend himself. The snake, on the other hand, was practically immune to the heat, and would definitely make sneaking in and out of places easier. Being able to kill with a single glance didn't hurt either. And his last form, the hawk, would be an excellent way to pass any bodies of water. The bird, powerful in its own right, was an excellent way to gather information with its keen eyesight.

Harry had managed to accomplish all of that by his fifth year in Azkaban, and with that knowledge, he would most likely be able to escape. After careful debate, he'd chosen to wait awhile. In light of Voldemort's activities, the prison was currently the safest place for him. Beyond that, it gave him the time and the opportunity to prepare himself, both physically and mentally, for the battle he'd chosen to fight. He'd known that the minute he escaped, he'd have Voldemort and his Death Eaters, the Ministry and their Aurors, as well as the entirety of the wizarding world searching for him. Before he put himself in that position, he wanted to be sure that he knew __exactly__ what was going on.

Despite the wards, Harry's scar still connected him to Voldemort. His nights were haunted with the Dark Wizard's plans, and more than once he'd awoken screaming in pain, blood leaking from the angry mark on his forehead. Ironically the man who was behind putting him in Azkaban was Harry's only connection to the outside world.

Personally, Harry thought it was hilarious.

It served as a distinct advantage. Once he'd trained himself to deal with the pain of experiencing the curses placed on Voldemort's victims, Harry had begun to clinically analyze the strengths and weaknesses of various Death Eaters, as well as the Dark Lord himself. If he ever came face to face with any of them, he'd already know their style and tactics in a duel.

In the same regard, listening to and watching them cast curses and hexes, Harry found a wealth of knowledge in the Dark Arts. They used spells that he'd never heard before, and he'd taken to practicing and perfecting them when he was awake.

The use of the Unforgivables was an offense that landed people in Azkaban. Where better to practice them now that he was already there?

Harry often found himself trying to choke off his laughter. He rarely succeeded.

Of course, whenever he started cracking up, Medusa automatically wished to be informed about what he found so funny. When he managed to get himself under control to tell her, both of them usually ended up rolling around on the floor with mirth.

Every curse that Voldemort or his followers used was just another spell he added to his arsenal. The difference was that Harry used his time to __understand__ the spells, learning not only how to cast them, but how to cast them to his greatest advantage. In knowing not only what the spell could do in theory and in practice, but also how to counter them, his knowledge of the Dark Arts deepened.

On the days where he learned nothing new from his visions, he'd attempt to create new spells of his own, mixing bits and pieces of the old ones to form curses that were even more potent and create blocks that were even more effective. If the spells he learned didn't __have__ counterspells, he created them. If the hexes he'd seen only worked under certain conditions, he expanded them. If there wasn't a spell for something that he wanted to do, then he sat down and __made__ one.

Using the background and theories he'd learned in school, his nightly dreams of Voldemort, and Medusa's suggestions and comments, he prepared his plans for after he'd escaped Azkaban. He'd need a few things, and he wouldn't be able to access any of his funds from Gringotts, but he was confident.

On his seventh year anniversary, he would make his escape. He thought it appropriate - one year for each of his sins.

His first sin was simply being born. It was an innocent sin, really, and one that he'd had no control over, but he'd served his time for it.

His second sin was a bit more complex. He'd survived the Killing Curse. He'd cheated death. And he'd always bear the mark of it on his forehead for everyone to see.

His third sin was his inherent weakness to trust the human race. Even after eleven years at the Dursleys', he'd still been willing to let people in. After his betrayal, it was one sin he knew he would never commit again.

His fourth sin had been trying to blend in. After his first year, he'd done his best to not stand out, in his classes or anything else. He'd denied his abilities because he wanted to be accepted. He no longer needed their approval; he swore to use his powers to the fullest.

His fifth sin was blind acceptance. He'd listened to lies all of his life – hadn't he been told that Basilisks were evil? And yet Medusa was his lifeline, and the only creature in the world that truly loved him for what he was. He wouldn't accept any more lies. He would find the truth for himself.

His sixth sin was his mercy. He'd spared Peter Pettigrew's life, and __that__ sorry little lapse had resulted in the revival of Voldemort. No, mercy wasn't a gift; it was a curse!

And his final sin – well, that was his unwillingness to fight. He used to believe that there could be "another way" to solve conflict, but that time had long since passed. He would fight, and if necessary, he would kill. But he would never, ever let himself be taken without that fight.

Even if he ended up fighting the whole goddamned world.

And now, he waited. He was only a few weeks away from the date he'd chosen for his escape. Of course, it wasn't just the anniversary of his imprisonment; the day was much more particular to him than just that.

On that same day, so many years ago, he'd committed his first sin.

He whispered softly to Medusa, _"Soon you'll be wishing me a Happy Birthday, love."_

She writhed against him in excitement, her tail tightening marginally on one of his wrists. Her hiss sang of delight. _"Sssoon, sssoon, my massster, my sssame."_

"_I think I'll have chocolate cake, and we can find you a young doe, if you'd like,"_ he murmured back.

"_My massster, my love, Medusssa wantsss to bring you a presssent,"_ her tongue whispered against his skin.

Harry paused, absently stroking the top of her head. _"Perhaps you'll bring me a nice, warm rat, Medusa. Will you find me one that's missing a paw?"_

Then he smiled and closed his eyes, his laughter ringing throughout the prison. Many of the inmates had heard it before, but it wasn't the sort of sound anyone got used to. They cringed in their cells, and those who still had a shred of sanity left offered a silent prayer, that they may never meet the man who made such a sound.

"_Medusssa will bring him to you, massster. Medusssa will bring all the ratsss of the world and lay them trembling at your feet."_

"_I look forward to the day, love. We'll have a feast of rats, you and I,"_ Harry said, fighting off another wave of laughter.

It was hard, though.

Sometimes he just cracked himself up.

o


	3. Unforgiven

Title: Muddy Reflections

Author: Becka

Chapter 3: Unforgiven

o

Draco Malfoy sighed, scratching absently at his forearm. More specifically, at his Dark Mark. Oh, he could hide it from prying eyes quite easily, with his clothing, with his glamours, but never from himself. It was always with him.

There was a common misconception about the Dark Mark. People believed it was simply a tattoo, a symbol of loyalty to the Dark Lord. Before he'd received his own Mark, he'd believed much the same. He should have known better.

Nothing was __ever__ that simple with Lord Voldemort.

The mark was a living thing that moved underneath his skin. Voldemort had burned it there himself, infusing a tiny fraction of all that he was in the hateful symbol. For the rest of his life, Draco would carry a piece of the man in his very flesh.

Few people knew that he was marked. Severus Snape knew, of course. He'd been there for the ritual, and moreover, he knew its true purpose as Draco's godfather, and a fellow spy himself. Hermione Granger – well, Hermione Weasley, now – had figured it out on her own, but had sworn upon her oath to the Order that she would never speak of it. And, of course, there was Albus Dumbledore.

He had been working as a double agent for the Order of the Phoenix for nearly four years.

Lucius Malfoy, his father, had pushed him into subservience to the Dark Lord only days after he'd graduated Hogwarts. Unsure of what to do, he'd approached his godfather for advice, and the older man had revealed that not only did he bear the Mark, but that he used that advantage for the side of light.

After his conversation with Severus, he'd approached Dumbledore. He'd sworn his oath to the Order then and there, and had been branded with the Mark barely a week later.

On the orders of both Voldemort and Dumbledore, he'd accepted a position as Severus' apprentice at Hogwarts. For the Dark Lord, it meant that he'd have two spies at Hogwarts in close contact with one another. For Dumbledore, it meant that it would not be suspicious if Draco met in the Headmaster's office for Order meetings.

For Draco, it meant he could be near his godfather.

Lucius Malfoy was not a bad or evil man, but in Draco's earliest memories, it was Severus Snape who'd truly cared for him. It was Severus Snape who'd raised him in all but name. And it was for love of his godfather that Draco hadn't hesitated to undertake the dangerous task of being a spy in Voldemort's inner circle.

Having two spies was very useful. No one would ever suspect that __two__ members of the Dark Lord's circle were actually working for the Order. One of them could pass on information the Order had approved, and the second could verify it. And, in the event that one of them was discovered, the order would still have a source.

It wasn't exactly a win-win situation, but it was better than what the Order relied on in the past.

"Are you all right, Draco?" Severus asked softly, breaking the blonde out of his silent reverie. The Potions Master's eyes drifted to where Draco was leaving angry scratches on his arm.

Noticing this, Draco tugged his sleeve down and dropped both of his hands to his sides.

"I'm fine," he replied. "Just… you know…"

Snape nodded, his eyes softening a little. Indeed, Draco's godfather was the only one who really understood.

"Dumbledore has summoned both of us to his office," Severus said abruptly, raising his voice back to a normal level. There was a meeting of the Order, which they both knew of, but they always took extreme caution when speaking of it. They weren't naïve enough to believe that they were Voldemort's __only__ eyes and ears in Hogwarts.

"Has he?" Draco replied in the same tone. He let a hint of irritation creep into his voice. "Whatever does the mad fool want now?"

A nasty smile curved Snape's mouth as he responded, "Perhaps he's going to try and discourage us from terrorizing the Gryffindors again."

Draco laughed. Both he and his godfather were notorious for instilling the fear of Slytherin into the Gryffindors, __especially__ the first and second years. He had to hand it to Severus - with the new school year coming up, it was exactly the sort of thing Dumbledore would call them up to talk about.

They made their way silently through the halls until they reached the entrance to Dumbledore's office. Snape glanced at the gargoyle and said distastefully, "Razzles."

As the stone guardian allowed them admittance, Severus muttered, "I don't suppose you can offer me any insight into Albus' bizarre affinity for Muggle candies?"

"Afraid not," Draco snickered.

He glanced at the other occupants of the room. Ron and Hermione Weasley were already there, as were Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. Alastor Moody was also present, which surprised him a little, because the man had been gone for nearly three months on a mission. As far as meetings went, it was fairly large. Usually information was given to operatives separately. That way, if anyone __was__ captured, they wouldn't know who was doing what.

"Ah, Draco, Severus, please sit," Dumbledore said, gesturing to the two open chairs. As they did so, the Headmaster continued, "I have some very distressing news."

Draco covertly glanced at his godfather. The older man shook his head marginally, making it perfectly clear that he didn't have any idea what was going on either. It was __very__ rare for Albus to call a meeting simply because of "distressing news."

"As you all know," the elderly wizard began, "we've been making quite a bit of progress regarding Voldemort's attacks on various wizarding families. With the Alert-All spells that we've placed on most of the houses in our community, we've actually managed to stop some attacks that we had no prior knowledge of."

Draco saw Weasley, Sirius, and Moody nodding out of the corner of his eye. He may not like any of them – he'd never quite forgiven Mad-eye Moody for turning him into a ferret and bouncing him around the hallway, even if he knew it was only an impostor – but he did have to hand it to them. The three Aurors had done an excellent job of casting and maintaining the Alert-All spells. They'd saved several lives.

"And, with the research Hermione and Remus have been doing, we are closer than ever to finding a way to break through the protections Voldemort uses."

Both the young woman and the werewolf flushed uncomfortably. Draco certainly didn't envy their job. After the ministry finally accepted Voldemort's return, several Aurors had volunteered to bring him down. If only it had been that easy. They'd discovered that no curses or spells __worked__ on the Dark Lord, and not even his trusted Death Eaters knew why. Hermione had theorized he might have created a new sort of magical shield and anchored it to his body permanently. She and Remus had been working on a way to disable it ever since.

"Last," Dumbledore continued, "we have the experimental potion Severus and Draco have been working on to help eradicate the lingering effects of Cruciatus. The preliminary testing has been remarkably successful, and perhaps with time, it will even be able to help those who've been sent to St. Mungo's."

Draco was amused at how Dumbledore was leading everyone in. He hadn't gotten to his "distressing news," but by bringing up the accomplishments of all present, as well as their progress, he'd lulled them all into a false sense of security. The impact of whatever news he had would be further impressed upon all present simply because they weren't expecting it.

… how very Slytherin of him.

Having realized what the Headmaster was doing, Draco quickly schooled his expression, determined __not__ to show any surprise. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his godfather doing the same.

"But," Albus said, his eyes suddenly weary, "despite our efforts, unforeseen problems are always cropping up. And it's with a heavy heart that I inform you… Harry Potter has escaped from Azkaban."

The room was silent.

Draco, for his part, felt his heart drop to somewhere in the vicinity of his toes. Potter had escaped?

When Potter had been accused of murdering Cedric Diggory, Draco had laughed. It was absolutely impossible; the other boy was for too… too __noble_ _ to ever willfully kill someone. But the wizarding world and Potter's own __friends__ had seemed to eat up the idea, and quicker than he'd thought possible, the once-savior had been imprisoned in Azkaban.

Now that he was free… well, the people who believed Potter guilty would fear him because they thought he was evil.

But Draco knew better. Potter was innocent – had to be! – and an innocent man who'd been wrongly imprisoned in Azkaban for several years was __far__ more dangerous than an evil one.

A glance at Severus revealed the Potions Master had probably followed that line of thought.

"Please tell me you're having us on, Albus," Hermione said quietly, her lower lip trembling.

"No, Hermione. I'm not."

Ron exploded, "How could that bastard escape? He never even finished __school__!"

"Convenient of you to remember you put a fourteen-year-old boy in Azkaban," Snape said unexpectedly. His expression was inscrutable.

"He was a murderer, Severus, though it pains me to think that James' son could be," Remus said. He was rubbing small circles on Sirius' back, and the once-prisoner of Azkaban had a stricken expression on his face.

Draco found his voice. With a wave of his hand, he said dismissively, "Whatever. I said it back then, and I'll say it now – Potter couldn't possibly have killed Diggory. He was far too… too __Gryffindor__."

"All of the evidence pointed to him," Moody argued.

"And you're telling me he couldn't have been framed?" Draco pointed out reasonably. "Come on, Moody. Constant vigilance."

"He was different…" Hermione said hesitantly. "After the tournament, I mean. Before, I would have agreed with you, Dray, but… he wasn't the same."

Draco rolled his eyes. "People grow up, Hermione."

Before the conversation could continue, Dumbledore cleared his throat. "We are not here to discuss Harry's guilt, Draco. I have a few pictures from Mr. Potter's cell, and I believe what we need to do at the moment is ascertain whether or not he will be a danger to the Order."

The Headmaster distributed copies of the photos around the table, and Draco silently studied them. He'd heard a little about the interior of Azkaban before, but he'd never actually __seen__ what the prisoners' cells looked like.

For some reason, the thought of Potter in the tiny room made him feel uneasy. He quickly dismissed the notion.

What caught his attention, though, were the hazy red images and scribbles that adorned the stone walls. His eyes widened a bit when he realized what the Boy-Who-Lived used for ink.

Ron spat, "Even in prison, he still gets his privileges. Wonder who pitied him enough to bring him ink –"

No one was more surprised than Draco when Severus snarled, "I suggest you shut your mouth, Weasley."

"What?" Ron growled, "Prisoners aren't supposed to get ink. As an Auror, I'd like to know who supplied him with enough to paint his walls like that. I mean, who spoils murderers by bringing them expensive red inks?"

"Give him enough rope," Moody commented darkly, "and he'll hang himself."

"Merlin, will you people tell me what's wrong!" Ron yelled.

"It's not ink, love," Hermione said.

"Look how it flakes off, and how some of it is darker and more brittle than other bits," Remus agreed, still tending to the shell-shocked Sirius.

"If it's not ink, then…" The puzzled expression on the redhead's face made Draco want to smack him.

"Blood," the blonde man finally hissed. "He painted the cell walls with. His. Own. Blood. Is __that__ clear enough for you, Weasel?"

"Merlin," Ron breathed, losing some of his steam. His eyes were wide as he sat down.

"Albus," Moody pointed to one of the photographs, "I think I might have somethin'."

Everyone glanced at the photograph. There was a section of writing that looked brighter, fresher, than the rest. Picking up the picture, Hermione read swiftly, her voice picking up the natural pentameter.

"Seven years for seven sins,

but never will I fail again.

The first of which beyond my grasp.

The second stole my child's past.

The third, betrayed, I'll never trust.

The fourth I hid 'neath all my rust.

The fifth of lies, let truth supplant.

The sixth a boon I'll never grant.

And last the torch that I will bear –

A curse on all who were not there."

Severus tilted his head imperceptibly. "Interesting."

Ron sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Sounds sort of like a prophecy."

"Seven years for seven sins?" Draco mused, toying with a lock of his hair, "He __did__ escape on the seventh anniversary of his imprisonment."

"And the seven sins?" Moody prompted.

"Perhaps a reference to the seven deadly sins?" Severus commented.

Ron blinked, "The __what__?"

"It's a Muggle thing, dear," Hermione muttered, staring intently at the picture.

"No…" Remus shook his head. "It seems more personal than that. Perhaps he believes he's committed seven sins and this was his ways of saying that he served one year in Azkaban for each?"

"And the 'not failing again,' bit…?" Severus shook his head. "I don't know. Potions are my specialty – not riddles."

"Hn. Sounds like seven years in Azkaban drove him nutters," Ron said scathingly.

Draco glanced at Dumbledore, surprised to see the old man watching the proceedings intently. He looked – well, he looked like a cat ready to pounce on its prey. When Albus noticed Draco was watching him, his face instantly relaxed, and he offered a quirky smile.

Quickly, Draco tried to focus on what was being said.

"'The first of which beyond my grasp,'" Hermione quoted softly.

"You've thought of something, 'Mione?" Remus asked gently.

"Well…" the young woman's brow furrowed a bit, a sure sign she was in deep concentration, "… beyond his grasp would be something he didn't have any control over, right?"

Ron snorted. "His imprisonment."

"If he was able to escape, I'd say he had perfect control over it," Draco drawled.

Severus quirked a brow, "His life, perhaps?"

"No." Hermione's eyes lit up. "His birth!"

"Potter believes his first sin was being born?" Snape asked, surprised. He shared a glance with Draco. "How incredibly cynical of him."

Draco said mildly, "Don't you mean, how very Slytherin of him?"

Sirius suddenly stood, pulling away from Remus. "Shut __up__."

Everyone looked to the dark-haired animagus, who glowered back silently. "Trying to decipher the writings of Azkaban prisoners is impossible, all right? They're all nutters. I don't know why you're even bothering. If he escaped, he sure as hell didn't do it under his own willpower."

Remus tried to catch one of the enraged man's hands, but Sirius pulled away. He continued angrily, "Whoever took him did it to confuse us. The only reason I survived that place is because I was innocent. Harry –" he choked on the name, but managed to continue, "– is probably a fucking __vegetable__ by now. So stop trying to figure out what that bit of crap means - whoever broke him out probably wrote it. They're using him as emotional leverage, 'cause even if he is a murdering bastard, he's still my __godson__ and…"

The rest of the room looked away, embarrassed to have witnessed the older man's breakdown. Remus pulled Sirius into a tight hug and led the distraught man out of the room.

As Dumbledore watched the two leave, he said quietly, "Sirius did bring up a very valid point. Harry couldn't have escaped Azkaban without assistance. And whoever did it will probably try to use him against us."

"It'll work out in the end, Albus," Moody said, shrugging. "What's done is done."

Hermione asked, "Do you want me to see if I can figure the rest of this out?" She held up the photograph.

"I would be very much interested in what it has to say, Hermione." The Headmaster smiled. "I believe that's the end of this meeting. If the rest of you would be so kind as to keep an eye out for anything interesting –"

Draco snickered.

The snicker grew to a full-fledged laugh.

By the time he'd managed to get himself under control, there were tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Draco?" Severus hissed, wondering what his godson found so incredibly funny.

"I'm sorry," Draco said, "It's just… ha! Whoever got him out of there has quite a wicked sense of humor."

Ron blinked. "How so?"

The blonde man pointed to one of the pictures. "According to Potter's calendar here, it seems he escaped about two days ago. Correct?"

Dumbledore nodded.

"I don't suppose any of you remember what that day signifies?"

"Obviously not, boy," Moody growled. "Get on with it."

"It's just… oh, god, this is killing me…" Draco shook his head, still laughing. "It's his bloody birthday! Happy fuckin' birthday, Potter."

The rest of the room was silent, but the sentiment lingered heavily in the air.

Dumbledore cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Meeting adjourned."

o


	4. Obscurity

Title: Muddy Reflections

Author: Becka

Chapter 4: Obscurity

o

Escaping had been so very simple. Harry idly wondered why people didn't waltz out of Azkaban every day.

All he'd had to do was change into a Basilisk, and he and Medusa had happily slithered through the same pipelines that she'd originally used to get __in__ to Azkaban all those years ago. Once outside the prison walls, they'd crossed the moat easily, gliding along the unbroken surface of the water to freedom.

In his initial preparations, Harry had contemplated several methods of escape. He could have transfigured into his wolf-form and slipped through the bars as Sirius had done. He could have used his eagle-form and flown away. He could have used the magic he'd been practicing, opened his door with a soft "_Alohomora_", blasted every Dementor in sight, then exited the building with his head held high. Hell, he could have even apparated.

In the end, he'd gone with the Basilisk.

It seemed only fitting. A snake had put him there to begin with, and a snake would see him out.

While he'd been slithering through the pipelines with Medusa, he'd almost wished that he could make human sounds, just so he could have had the satisfaction of snickering.

Once they were a safe distance from the prison, Harry had apparated both of them into the heart of Muggle London. It was late, but a swift glamour ensured no one would notice him. He'd almost contemplated letting himself be seen, just to get the reactions of a few unsuspecting Muggles. After all, it wasn't every day that a gaunt, wiry man, dressed in tattered, bloodstained robes walked down Regent Street with a deadly serpent wrapped around his neck and waist.

He'd ultimately decided that no matter how satisfying it might be, he couldn't risk detection so early in his plans.

It had been simple to transfigure a couple of flyers into cold, hard cash, and Harry had bought himself a room for a few nights. It was in this time that he implemented what he'd so cleverly named, "Stage One."

His first stop had been to a small, thrifty clothing shop to purchase a couple of pairs of second-hand jeans and several shirts. Harry didn't plan on being in Muggle-land for too long; the clothes would serve his purpose.

Next, he stopped by a cosmetics store, purchasing enough cover-up to hide his scar until he managed to create a concealment spell that actually __worked__ on the damned thing. The scar was his most visible link to both Voldemort and the wizarding world at large, and as such, needed to be removed from sight at once.

He purchased a year's supply of colored contact lenses, as well. Anyone who'd known his mother would instantly recognize the unique coloring of his eyes. He briefly toyed with the notion of using a glamour, or transfiguring them, but in the unlikely event that someone cast "_Finite Incantatum_!" or searched him for magical residue, neither of those options would hold up. In the end, contacts would be simpler, because no one in the wizarding world would be looking for them. Besides, it wasn't as if the money mattered to him.

During his time in Azkaban, his hair had grown down past his shoulders. Ultimately, he'd decided to trim it, but keep the length. Everyone who remembered "The-Boy-Who-Lived," would recall a short mop of unruly black hair. And the supply of dirty blonde hair-dye he'd picked up would take care of that particular problem.

Once he'd taken care of his initial concerns, he found himself gazing into the mirror of his tiny bathroom. His face was thin, but the rest of him was layered, hard muscle. He'd tied his dark blonde hair back into a ponytail, and dark, brown eyes scrutinized his forehead for any hint of his irksome scar.

In the tee shirt and jeans he'd bought, he looked… plain. Just like anyone else he'd pass on the street and not give a second thought to. Besides being a bit on the lanky side, there was nothing to set him apart in a crowd.

Which, he smiled, was exactly the effect he'd been going for. Having been surrounded by fame, both the good and the bad, for all of his life, Harry was __definitely__ looking forward to being a nonentity. He knew that the only pictures anyone had of him were several years old, and comparing his current look to the Boy-Who-Lived would be like apples and oranges.

"Tell me, Doctor Potter," Harry said, staring intently at his reflection in the mirror as he adopted a slight, Irish brogue. "Got a bit o' a question fer ya. How d'ya suppose it's proper-like, to treat seven years o' solitude, coupled with daily soul-suckin' an' a touch o' mental instability?"

"Well," said Harry's reflection, "I'd obviously recommend goin' after the arses who put ya in that hell to begin with – maybe feed 'em to yer snake. But firs' I'd advise the patient to find that Voldemort fucker an' rip 'im a new arsehole."

"An' what purpose would that serve, Doctor Potter?" Harry asked, his eyes going a bit wide.

"Well, firs' it'd help the patient feel more positive, a vital step on the road to recovery. An' besides, you'll feel __much__ better 'bout yerself once ye've cut the bastard's wee balls off an' shoved 'em down his throat."

"Yer a right mad bastard, Doctor Potter," Harry smiled, showing nothing but teeth. "I'm glad I came to ya."

o

"Stage Two," of Harry's plan was to integrate himself back into the wizarding world. The matter of money was again solved by simple transfiguration. As he turned another handful of pebbles into Galleons, he wondered why other wizards hadn't thought of it. By anchoring the spell to the pebble, not even a "_Finite Incantatum_" would reveal the stone for what it was.

It never occurred to Harry that most wizards didn't know __how__ to anchor spells.

After convincing Medusa to lay low, Harry made his way to the first shop: "Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions." If he'd had any trepidation about being recognized, it was dismissed when the elderly woman smiled at him and asked what name he'd like embroidered on the tag.

"Why, miss, shame on me fer not introducin' myself proper-like," Harry answered smoothly, a charming smile on his lips. "Sean Cassidy, at yer service."

Madam Malkin blushed, clearly flattered at being shamelessly flirted with by a man one-third her age. She'd even given him a discount on the assortment of dress and casual robes he'd selected. He picked one of the black robes to wear, and the rest were packaged. Madam Malkin assured him it was no trouble to deliver them to The Leaky Cauldron later that night, where he'd told her he planned to get a room.

His next stop was, of course, Ollivanders. It was necessary to pick up a new wand because he'd be far too suspicious without one. The trouble was, he didn't know if there __was__ another wand that would accept him.

Opening the door quietly, he stepped inside. The tiny room hadn't changed at all, and thin boxes still cluttered every available space. Mr. Ollivander looked up from his desk, a small crease marring his brow.

Harry said respectfully, "Hello, sir. I'm rather interested in pickin' up a wand. Reckon ya could help me?"

"Who are you?" Mr. Ollivander asked abruptly, scrutinizing Harry's face. "It's my business to know every man, woman, and child who comes to this store, yet I do not know you."

"Sean Cassidy's the name," Harry quipped. "Been out an' abouts fer a while. Got into a spot o' trouble with a dark wizard. I don't know what happened to my wand." All of which, he thought proudly, was completely true.

"Mr. Cassidy," the older man said softly, as if testing the weight of the words on his tongue. Then he shook his head and muttered, "Perhaps I'm simply getting old."

Ollivander stood, reaching for one of the nearby boxes, and soon they were deep in the process of finding one that fit. Wand after wand, Harry swished, but none of them reacted. It didn't bode well for the escaped convict.

Finally, Ollivander threw up his hands. "Perhaps you might try picking one. You're an extremely difficult fit, Mr. Cassidy."

Blinking, Harry glanced around the tiny room, letting his eyes pass over the boxes. One of them seemed to tug at him, and curiously he reached for it. He heard Ollivander exhale sharply behind him as he gently swished the wand. A bright stream of green and gold sparkles erupted from its tip.

"Curious," the other man remarked. "That's a prototype I've been working on. Yew, eleven inches, dual core of a phoenix feather and a dragon heart-sting. One of a kind, really."

"How much?" Harry breathed, never taking his eyes from the wand.

"Seventeen Galleons," Ollivander responded primly. Harry paid without question.

He exited swiftly, not noticing the tight, proud smile on Ollivander's lips. Nor did he hear old man murmur, "I never thought to see the day there would be a wizard powerful enough to wield it, Mr. Potter."

o

Once outside the shop, Harry tucked the wand up his sleeve. The rest of his day was a blur as he visited various shops in both Diagon and Knockturn Alley. His purchases ranged from several plump mice for Medusa to a top of the line broom, a WinterWraith, and the supplies to take care of it. He found a quality Invisibility Cloak in one of the shadier stores and immediately bought it. While he did know several spells that would mask his presence, he preferred having a backup, just in case.

Perhaps Harry's best purchase of the day was a small trunk very similar to the one Mad-eye Moody's imposter had, with seven keyholes lined across the side. He packed all of his supplies into the first and second sections of the trunk, and tucked the keys firmly into his pocket. Several volumes of books whose subjects ranged from the common to the bizarre, encyclopedias and reference guides, and (indulgently) the latest copy of 'Quidditch Through the Ages' were selected at Flourish & Blotts. Tiny parcels of a multitude of potion ingredients, as well as phials, scales, and a new cauldron were purchased at the Apothecary. Parchment, quills, and a variety of inks were an afterthought.

Content that he had the beginnings of his new roots in the wizarding world, Harry collected Medusa. With her comforting body wrapped securely around his waist, concealed beneath his billowing robes, Harry whistled merrily as he made his way to The Leaky Cauldron.

o

It was an hour later that Harry found himself sitting in a small booth in the corner, quietly nursing a bottle of scotch. He was comfortable in the shadows, and his eyes lazily scanned the smattering of occupants. His mind, though, was elsewhere.

He'd been lucky when he was shopping; he hadn't run into anyone he'd known. But if his plan was to be successful, he'd have to deal with the traitors who put him into Azkaban on a daily basis, and there was no getting around it.

Did he hate them? To a certain extent, he supposed. They'd been instrumental in ruining his life, after all, and being stuck in Azkaban wasn't exactly something one just forgave and forgot. Dumbledore had been his father figure, the one person he'd depended on to always be there for him, and the man hadn't even __bothered__ to try and help him when things got rough. Ron and Hermione had turned their backs on him, despite their supposed "unconditional friendship." Even Sirius, who'd once been wrongly imprisoned himself, hadn't believed in his own godson.

But in the same regard, he'd long ago realized that he couldn't bring himself to care.

They'd turned on him. Now that he was free, he no longer had any obligations to any of them. He didn't need their forgiveness, because they had no right to judge him. He didn't want their friendship because he was perfectly capable of supporting himself. He hated them to a point, but beyond that, they no longer mattered to him.

Perhaps he'd deal with them the way he remembered Snape dealing with his students. He'd put up with them because he had to, but bubbling beneath the surface would be seven years worth of poorly concealed contempt.

The thought actually put a smile on his face. Hermione would go out of her way to try and get him to like her, because she had to have that reassurance. No one liked being despised. And she'd spend hours poring over her actions, trying to figure out what he didn't like about her.

If his plan worked, that was.

Harry was brought back by the door of the Leaky Cauldron being pushed open, and a hulking figure ducking down to fit through the doorway. The escaped convict felt a smile tugging at his lips. A curious feeling, really. Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd honestly smiled.

Rubeus Hagrid nodded his greeting to a few patrons, then slumped onto one of the barstools. Time had been kind to the half-giant, and only a few flecks of gray interrupted his dark, unruly mane.

Still smiling, Harry slipped from his seat in the corner and silently made his way over to the older man. He slid onto the stool on the giant's left. It only took him a moment to catch Hagrid's eye.

"Buy ya a drink, mate?"

Hagrid grunted his thanks, then squinted at Harry suspiciously. "Der I __know__ yeh from somewhere?"

"Nah. I been travelin' about fer a while. Only stopped here fer a day or two, an' I was lookin' fer someone to share a pint an' maybe some company."

"Well then. Who am I ter refuse? Name's Hagrid," the giant said with a wide grin.

"Sean," Harry replied, extending his hand. "Sean Cassidy, at yer service."

The younger man tried not to wince as Hagrid's paw of a hand squashed his own. Harry hailed the bartender and the pair settled into polite conversation as they drank.

"So, what do yer do, Sean?" Hagrid asked curiously.

"Nothin' at the moment. I'm still gettin' my bearin' if ya know what I mean. Feelin' a wee bit lost on what to do. Could ya fill me in on what's been goin' on then, Hagrid? Been out an' abouts fer a while, like I said."

"Not much ter tell," Hagrid replied. "I dun keep up with it. Busy teachin' at Hogwarts."

"Dumbledore still Headmaster, then?" Harry said, feigning curiosity.

"Yessir. Great man, Dumbledore. Say, yeh wouldn't happen ter be lookin' fer a spot o' work, would yeh?"

"Matter o' fact, I am. Why?"

"Well, I 'appen ter know the Headmaster's lookin' fer someone ter fill a teachin' position. With the new school year so close, he's gettin' desperate."

"Yeah? Not Potions, is it? I could nae fix a decent brew to save my life."

"Blimey, no! Hogwarts has had the same Potions Master fer the last twenty years! Dumbledore's lookin' fer someone fer Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Ya don't say?" Harry couldn't conceal the tiny smile that curved his lips. "Well, Hagrid, I do happen to know a thing or two 'bout __that__."

o

Note: The conversation Harry has with himself in the mirror is not entirely mine. The idea came from The Preacher, where Cassidy (an Irish vampire) has a similar conversation with himself. I've always loved the idea of people talking to themselves, but not really talking to themselves.

Second, Cassidy-from-The-Preacher is not why I decided to give Harry the name "Sean Cassidy." Sean was a boy I knew in grade school, many, many years ago. We'll leave it at that.

o


End file.
